


Einhornwald

by AvaMclean



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Last Unicorn - Peter S. Beagle
Genre: Comedy, Crack Crossover, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This night sucked beyond the telling of it. Not that you intended to tell anyone. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Einhornwald

Title: Einhornwald  
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: The Last Unicorn and all related themes are copyright of Peter S Beagle and Viking Press. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.  
Warning: Crack with a side of second person POV—Faith-style. 

Summary: This night sucked beyond the telling of it. Not that you intended to tell anyone. Ever. 

+

You should’ve known something was up the moment the demon hauled ass towards the tree line. The cannon fodder around him was left relatively unscathed—aside from a few body checks and angry shouts. Following the path that wide body made through the crowd was easy enough and it didn’t hurt your feelings to leave behind the music festival the Minis had dragged you too. It’d stunk of patchouli and too many unwashed bodies in too compact a space. 

A good time you were not having. So catching sight of the demon had made your night—if you could catch the spry _sonofabitch_.

Low-lying limbs and upturned roots weren’t the deterrent the demon had hoped. You might’ve been born and raised in the city, but you’ve also run through worst and the music at the festival had been driving you batshit. A sad woman with a guitar just made you think of wounded animals now. Besides you’re enjoying yourself as the distance between you and your prey shortens. Your misting breath forces you to realize that the woods are colder than a clearing packed full of people. The adrenaline rush keeps you warm enough and gives you the boost you need to put shoulder to spine and take the demon down. 

Twigs and rocks make themselves acquainted with your person and a grunt escapes when you roll your opponent into a nearby tree. A shower of leaves voice it’s protest of the misuse, but the demon is up and swinging and you don’t have another moment to spare for an injured tree—not that you would’ve regardless. 

Claws catch in your jacket, tearing fabric rather than the flesh of your abdomen, as you sidestep his first swipe. Up close you can see his jowls just cover the tusks protruding from his bottom jaw. The underbite makes him look more bulldog than person and you marvel at the fact that he’d went unnoticed until you. 

Where were the Minis? Were they high? And why hadn’t they shared?

A meaty fist is dodged and you step back to retrieve your dagger from the inside pocket of your ruined jacket. You bob and weave a few times while working the weapon free, but aside from a few nicks he barely touches you. Which is disappointing. You’d been hoping for an actual fight after the shit day you’ve had. A sigh escapes at the same time the blade finally allows itself to be freed—it must’ve caught on something. 

He dodges the first jab and sidesteps your next two swipes and suddenly the fight is interesting. 

Until it isn’t. 

This hulking mess manages to avoid all your attempts to kill him. The damn tree is more injured than the either of you. Your next lunge is upset by a root and your ass is hitting the dirt. The demon is laughing at your fuming—a hissing chuckle that belongs more to an aging debutant than a thug of a demon. 

You inform him of this which prompts a growl and a kick from one trunk large leg. He lands in the dirt beside you and you take the opportunity to drive the knife towards his throat. 

Of freaking course you miss. And the knife breaks. What the actual hell, universe? You are not Abbot and this shithead is not Costello. Nor are you the Three Stooges because where is the third? And screw that. 

“Can’t kill me,” his voice sounds nothing like his laughter which is a relief. 

Though his beady eyes are still filled with mirth and you want that gone. Hell you want him gone—in the dead sense of the word. What was wrong with you tonight? Which is why your frustration with the universe at large is focused solely on him when you snarl and go for the kill—again. 

You try to kill him. Really you do, but you end up out of breath and on your ass more times than you’ll ever admit. To anyone. The demon is in a similar state and since you’re both in need of a breather you listen when he gasps, “Nothing can die an unnatural death in these woods.”

You blink. Frown. What?

He might’ve been psychic like that demon B took down way back when, but his mouth is moving and you’re pretty sure that one hadn’t had a mouth. At least that was the way B told it. Though she’d been drunk during the telling of that particular tale. 

“Unicorn,” is whimpered. 

“Yeah right,” you scoff because seriously. 

That thick neck works overtime as he shakes his head. “You can’t hunt in a unicorn’s woods. Didn’t you notice the name of the festival?” 

You did actually, but a Boston upbringing in no way prepared you for reading German. Gaelic and a little Italian you could handle, but not German. Which means ‘ _Einhornwald_ ’ translates to exactly jackshit to you. Though his explanation is making sense—in a scary way. 

“I get it.” You nod and he bares his sharp teeth in what resembles a smile, “So if I drag you outta these woods I can kill you?” 

The smile slips and suddenly the space in front of you is empty as your prey is hauling that lumbering ass deeper into the trees. You really should’ve expected that. A muttered curse and you step to follow, but a goddamn horse is in your path. 

The hell? 

A head shake and a couple of blinks later and the damn thing is still there. If you were Andrew you’d call it majestic, but you’re not Andrew and stick with white as your descriptive terms. Its eyes are large and matte looking in the dim light of the woods, but it’s definitely studying you. Like it’s taking your weight and measure and with the leaves in your hair and blood on your knuckles you just know it finds you lacking. Which is irritating. 

You attempt to sidestep it, but it’s nimble and finds its way into your path every _freaking_ time. A sound somewhere between a growl and whimper escapes your throat because at this point the demon is long gone and the horse is still just _watching_ you. And since something in you tells you can’t just hit a horse—even an irritating one—you throw your hands up in surrender. 

Thankfully your upturned hands slip easily into the bird and the horse nickers. It sounds oddly like laughter and you catch a glimpse of _something_ on its forehead. A shimmer and then it’s gone. 

No. No way in hell. 

You turn on your boot heel and head back the way you came. Towards the sound of terrible music and away from a horse that isn’t entirely a horse. 

You are not calling it a unicorn. 

Screw that. 

You’re out. 

+

The end.


End file.
